


that hot florida jason bourne feel

by philthestone



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post season three, also figgis has totes gotta look like bruce willis's evil twin i meAN, listen..... jakes a sunflower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 05:57:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7789297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are aware," Gina tells Amy one fine spring evening, cozied up against her shoulder almost uncomfortably close in the bustle of Shaw's, "that you're dating an <em>actual</em> Disney Princess, right?"</p><p>OR, why Jake's life is woefully not quite action-movie worthy and it's all Jimmy Figgis's fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that hot florida jason bourne feel

**Author's Note:**

> this whole fic is inspired by Hollywood Ending by wagamiller here on ao3 (IT'S BEAUTIFUL PLS GO READ AND SUPPORT), specifically the line, "Amy Santiago, first of her name, Queen of the Nine Nine" -- like, _iconic_
> 
> dedicated to everyone who's havin' a bit of a rough day!
> 
> also, i'm being annoying but this got very little feedback on tumblr and not only do i crave The Validation but i really do wanna know what y'all think, so reviews are Dramatic Montage Soundtracks in the background of romantic hollywood reunions (the good stuff, u know)

Jake’s in the middle of contemplating whether or not it’s truly action-movie-worthy if you only end up getting _almost_ kidnapped when the literal entire universe tilts on its literal entire axis.

And yes, he’s perfectly aware that he’s using the word “literal” so _flagrantly_ incorrectly that across the country, Amy is probably having a heart attack. Only, the fact of the matter is that -- as could be gleaned from the afore-mentioned universe-tilting -- Amy is not across the country, but rather right there on the same street as Jake is.

The same street.

As him.

Amy Santiago is on the _same street_ as Jake Peralta, and the literal universe tilts on its literal axis.

Wait, okay, so Jake should probably rewind. 

Considering he’s just been almost-kidnapped by and subsequently kind-of-rescued from a villainous crime lord akin to the Hans Gruber of Jake’s pretty exciting-ish life, his inability to be coherent at this moment in time should be forgiven. That being said, the Literal Tilting Of The Universe’s Axis should also probably be given a setting, like, a general feel of the neighborhood street it happens in, inclusive of the nice orange tree on the Anderson’s front lawn and Mrs. Murphy’s peonies –

That kind of thing.

Jake’s standing mostly-steadily in his undershirt and the dumb board shorts Larry Bloomberg likes to wear, trying to parse (and that should’ve been a Premonition, really, the fact that Jake voluntarily used the word _parse_ to describe something, about Amy’s Presence Nearby) what he’s just been told. As far as Jake can figure with a concussion he doesn’t want to acknowledge because he is literally too adrenaline-filled to care right now (his right knee might actually fly off, it’s jiggling so much), the Nine-Nine had been working with the FBI for the past week, planning a raid that they'd had to execute a lot sooner than they’d intended because Figgis pulled a curve ball and tried to kidnap Jake and Captain Holt.

 _Wild_ , right?

Jake had totally not thought to add "possible kidnapping" to his bi-hourly daydreams about what'd happen when they finally kicked Figgis's ass. Anyway, they’d tracked Figgis to Jake and Holt’s location, something Jake is vaguely starting to register he had _no idea_ about and he wonders if that was by design or should WITSEC have maybe, who knows, dropped a line?

_No worries, friends, this guy who’s personally trying to put a bullet through your skull is coming over for lemonade at Mrs. Murphy’s tomorrow. Don’t stress about tidying up the front porch or anything, he’s not very particular about those things._

(It has, indeed, gotten to the point where Jake’s mind immediately jumps to tidying the front porch and lemonade. He’s like, aged a century in six months, and it’s _entirely_ Jimmy Figgis’s fault, and also maybe the melting Florida heat.)

At any rate, Jake remembers fumbling with the key to his door after coming home from the grocery store (and that would’ve been, like, _the lamest_ kidnapping story – _I was at the grocery store_ , dear _God_ , as if he could even attempt to look cool with a carton of free range eggs in his hands), and the next thing he knew he was turning around to a blinding, sharp pain to his temple, waking up in a too-dark place that smelled vaguely of old socks. And he knew it was Vague Old Sock Smell, because his car always smelled like that only a half a year ago, except mixed with coffee and that stupid coconut air freshener Charles hung from the rear-view mirror. Captain Holt was pressed up against his back, which was actually pretty comforting despite his somewhat tired, “Peralta, not now,” to Jake’s inappropriately excited, “oh my _God_ , have we been _kidnapped_ like in the _movies_?”.

"It's fine, Captain," Jake had said, trying to kick his foot out in what he hoped was a gesture of solidarity. "We'll probably be rescued soon by the squad, they've got this."

"We have no idea," Holt had said, "that they even know --"

" _Captain_ ," Jake had said, and nothing after it (in all its slightly-strained glory), because any other possibility was unthinkable.

 _Unthinkable_ because it would mean that Jake would never get to see Amy's face again, would never hold Charles's baby or hug Gina or play with Terry's kids, or get punched in the arm by Rosa again. 

"I understand," Holt had said, barely above a whisper. "I would have liked to see Kevin one more time, too."

Jake had only had enough time to get the words, “Hey, Captain? D’you … d’you really think they’re going to –” before the trunk (it was a trunk, _wow_ , how did they even _fit_ them inside a trunk, the car had to be _mammoth_ -sized or something) had been popped open and the gross black bags, which Jake immediately learned had been the source of the Old Sock Smell, removed from their heads.

They were rescued, and pretty much immediately informed that their squad and the neighborhood PD were in the middle of taking down Figgis and the two goons he had left.

It’s been approximately two minutes and forty-five seconds – something Jake learns later because Captain Holt tells him so, that man has an _uncanny_ ability to keep time post-concussion and almost-kidnap – that Jake’s been out of the Gross Car Trunk. His eyesight is still adjusting to the Florida sunlight, and there are paramedics swarming around, and Agent Fancy Matrix Glasses is in the middle of telling him that he’s trying to maintain faith in the Nine-Nine’s judgement that this raid will actually work despite its haphazard nature when Jake hears it.

It’s, like. The most important moment of Jake’s whole life, give or take his becoming a detective, but only because that moment was the reason this moment is happening.

It’s her voice.

Wait, okay, rewind _again_.

It’s not just her voice. Jake actually hears several voices at once, not including Agent Fancy Matrix Glasses’s or the nice paramedic who keeps calling Captain Holt _champ_. These are sudden, and they’re yelling, and maybe it’s just his frazzled brain but Jake immediately thinks of those cool Mission Impossible movies where there are epic chases on foot through public spaces, only this isn’t Abu Dhabi but a lame-o Florida suburb. He’s pretty sure Jason Bourne never went to Florida, or anything dumb like that. If only they were in, like, Russia, maybe, where Jake could pull out his killer accent – or even better, London, England –

Jimmy Figgis looks like Bruce Willis’s evil twin.

If Jake’s life (encapsulated within the larger concept of The Universe) weren’t tilting on its axis, he would have probably wailed in outright and abject agony.

As it is, Jake isn’t looking at Jimmy Figgs, who actually looks utterly scared shitless. ( _Good_ , Jake will say later, out loud, without any context for the comment whatsoever.) Jake isn’t looking at Rosa, either, who is running in from the right side of the street full-tilt, her black curls flying in the air behind her and her customary leather jacket discarded for a tank top that looks like it’s smeared with blood under her kevlar vest, boots pounding on the pavement, looking truly, truly terrifying.

Jake’s sole focus, his entire attention, is –

“ _Figgis, you sonuvabitch coward, you threatened the love of my life and now you’re RUNNING?!_ ”

Her voice cracks spectacularly on the _running_ , which honestly should’ve been expected, considering how loudly she yelled it while running the fastest Jake has ever seen her run in his whole life. Her dark hair is glossy and black and swinging frenetically in a ponytail behind her head, strands flying out around her face like a halo where the bright, hot Florida sun shines down on her. There's a cut on her forehead, dark red against her skin, and a purpling bruise against her temple that Jake will later point to and say, _twinsies!_ with more delight than is probably healthy. The shirt under her vest is that bright salmon colour she always loves so much, sleeves shoved up messily at the elbows, and her right hand is gripping her gun so hard her knuckles have gone white.

Amalia Esperanta Santiago, first of her name, Officially-Crowned Queen of the Nine-Nine, and arguably the love of Jake’s not-quite action-movie-worthy life, is running at full speed down Palmgreen Boulevard, lips pulled back in fury, eyes utterly blazing, her whole being alight by the bright light of the sun. And the very first time Jake hears her voice after six months of Utter Agony, she:

(a) Calls the Right Bastard James “Jimmy the Butcher” Figgis a _sonuvabitch coward_ ;

(b) Calls him, Jake Peralta, the love of her life.

Or, at least, in the split second he has to think about it, Jake’s _pretty sure_ she means him. She might have actually been talking about Captain Holt, or even one of the numerous other poor folks Figgis’s threatened with Death, but Jake decides that that’s bordering on _slightly_ weird, and that it’s probably him, and promptly spends the next fifteen seconds swaying on the spot, mouth agape. If he were capable of coherent thought past the _slightly weird_ , he would have noted that were the appearance of cartoon-y heart bubbles bursting forth around his head and in his eyes a physical possibility, it would be happening.

The fifteen seconds are over rather abruptly when Rosa’s voice, harsh and interjecting and so achingly familiar, yells something about needing backup.

It’s at this point that Jake’s eyes slide off of Amy and onto Figgis, who, pleasantly, _does_ look utterly scared shitless, but also looks to be five seconds away from breaking away from Amy and Rosa through the gap between Jake and the Crowd and the L-shape Amy and Rosa’s pursuit has made. Figgis is sprinting, and Rosa’s voice seems to be shouting out to no person in particular, and somehow – _somehow_ – he really has not a single literal clue, God and probably the real, non-Figgis version of Bruce Willis and also possibly Captain Holt, standing beside him in a dirtied coral polo-shirt and looking Stressed, have blessed him – his brain snaps into crisis, dangerous-situation, high-risk Cop Mode, because Amy’s voice is _here_ and he’s chased down perps with her a million-and-one times before. It takes Jake less than five seconds to focus on the absence of handcuffs on Amy’s belt, the turn of her heel as her boot hits the ground, and he’s pushing past Agent Fancy Matrix Glasses and the champ paramedic.

If getting almost-kidnapped wasn’t exactly action-movie-worthy, _this_ certainly is.

Several things happen at once: Amy’s knees bend, Rosa swings out her arm, Figgis turns his face – and Jake ducks under the paramedics on autopilot, gracelessly unhooks the handcuffs from Officer That Kid With The Blond Hair’s belt, vaults himself into the air off of the hood of Kat Anderson’s car, unfortunately parked on the side of the street, and yells, “SANTIAGO, ON YOUR LEFT,” at the top of his lungs before flinging the handcuffs into the air.

Amy catches them mid-dive; she slams into Figgis, sending them both catapulting onto the Andersons’ lawn, right as Rosa skids into them, whipping up her gun and pointing it at the crown of Figgis’s head, haphazardly barking out a cracking version of something that sounds like “ _You, arrested!_ ”

Jake face-plants into the concrete.

He’d forgotten, in the midst of everything, that the concussion he’d been so diligently ignoring made him prone to general imbalance. Face-planting into concrete isn’t very cool _or_ Ethan Hunt-worthy (let _alone_ Jason Bourne-worthy) and nor is being helped to his wobbly feet by a couple of irate paramedics or becoming suddenly keenly aware of the fact that his nose is spurting blood. But the stream of blood dribbling down his upper lip into his teeth and the sharp stinging on his cheekbone are suddenly, irrevocably, so, so, _so_ irrelevant, because Jake is looking up, and Amy Santiago is looking straight at him like she’s only just truly realized he’s there, and the universe. Tilts. On its literal axis.

Jake forgets how to breathe.

(It’s a lot less dramatic than he makes it sound, honestly; just an odd sort of wheezing sensation in one’s general chest area.)

He looks up just in time to see the love of his life fling her gun to the ground and surge forwards, yelling his name in this funny, broken voice, sounding barely at all like herself and yet completely and utterly herself, and Jake forgets how to breathe.

It’s, like, the single most romantic thing that has ever happened to Jake, around Jake, probably down the street from Jake.

It’s _Disney_ -worthy, okay.

(He kind of swoons, though that may just be the combination of General Concussion Symptoms and Profuse Blood Loss From The Nose.)

And then Amy’s flung her arms around him and Jake’s breathing efforts are rather violently diverted to the gasping, broken sobs tumbling out from his mouth, through the blood and the strangled, “ _Amy_ ”s, through Amy’s repeating of the words, “You’re here, you’re here, you’re okay, you’re here.”

Jake’s straight up bawling, which is the least action-movie-worthy thing he has _ever_ done, but it’s totally, completely, one-hundred percent a-okay, because not only is Amy there after six months – she, too, is pretty much straight-up bawling.

It’s _so_ lame.

Jake thinks it’s the best moment of his whole life.

(Amy is rocking side to side with her arms wound around his neck and her hands burying and carding themselves in his hair, and later he will register the bruising on her ribs, and later she will grill him about his concussion and help him wipe away the dried blood on his face. 

Later they’ll actually be okay.)

(Right now, though –)

“I told one of the kids I babysat that you were a knight in shining pantsuits,” Jake blurts, like that’s even relevant right now, like Louanne Murphy down the street and her love for Larry Bloomberg’s funny stories holds even an iota of importance at this moment in time. His vision is blurry and his voice two octaves too high because of the tears, and Amy laughs her beautiful Santiago laugh, this time sloppy and all-over-the-place with emotion, and grabs Jake’s face in her hands and kisses him in the middle of the pavement of the Florida suburb street, the sun beating down on them and Captain Holt being called _champ_ and Rosa shoving a howling Jimmy Figgis into a squad car two feet away.

Jake grabs her face right back and would have totally dipped her like they do in movies if it weren’t for his relentlessly spinning head. He thinks that maybe if his life is more like a Disney movie, that’s okay, too – they always have happy endings, don’t they?

(“God,” says Rosa later, in the back of the FBI's badass black SUV, Amy tucked against Jake’s right and Charles clinging to Jake’s left and Gina placing herself in Charles’s lap and holding onto Jake’s arm over him to assert dominance, it would be _supremely uncomfortable_ if Jake had the energy to care – “ _God_ ,” says Rosa later, “you are _such_ a loser.”)

(Jake grins at her.)

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES:  
> \- it's worth mentioning that Fahye's Think Once, T hink Twice and its role as the originator of the paraphrased sentence, "Jake likes to think he's James Bond when in reality he's really just a Disney Princess" played a large role in the tone of this fic
> 
> \- this is me having fun and being silly, essentially, but also? this should totes happen
> 
> \- Amy Santiago is the world's most gallant knight in shining pantsuit and Jake's heart eyes are overwhelming
> 
> \- also, like, if Bruce Willis isn't hired to play Figgis i'll be v disappointed,
> 
> \- let me know what u thought!!! hope yall are doin okay


End file.
